


Fifty Year Break

by sadlittlepeachesandplums



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: 3x05, Bickering, Fluff, M/M, Married Couple, marriage without the benefits, quentin's an idiot that we all love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 08:52:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13655631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadlittlepeachesandplums/pseuds/sadlittlepeachesandplums
Summary: Quentin shakily climbs to his knees, silently cursing his aching joints and holds out his arms just in time to get two armfuls of grandchildren. He laughs into their hair, ruffles the youngest and looks over their heads at his son. “You came.”But Rupert just shakes his head with a laugh, and says, “Of course we came, dad.”Even now, it’s so strange when he says it. When he calls him dad. His eyes well up and he lets go of two of the grandkids to wipe at the tears before they can fall. The last thing he needs is his son worrying about him. He’s already made him worry about Eliot. “I missed you,” He says, grateful smile on his lips as he brushes away the tears.Rupert finally reaches him and the children scatter off towards their mother, cheery and wonderful. “I missed you, too.” Quentin pulls him in for a hug, and almost feels like he can’t let go as he hugs him back just as tightly. “How is he?”





	Fifty Year Break

Eliot won’t admit it, but he’s old and frail. Quentin sees it in the way his joints shake, and the pain he hides every time he gets up. When his hands shake as he lays tiles on the mosaic. When he struggles just to stand up from a chair, or climbing the ladder. He sees it every day in everything he does, and all he wants to do is _help_.

But Eliot is so god damned _stubborn_. Even Now, After everything. He won’t even let him cast a spell to heal his aging bones, or ease his pain. “ _I’m not that old,” He’ll say, “Honestly, Q. Now. Would you please just pass me the yellow tile?_ ”

So when he offers to do go back to back on the mosaic and Eliot suspects what Quentin’s really up to, Quentin sends a message to their son. Because if there’s one thing that can distract his stubborn, ass of a friend, it’s their son. And maybe their grandkids if they’re willing.

He hopes they’re willing. But the grandkids love them, love the spells they cast and the present they give. So it shouldn’t even be a question.

Which is why he shouldn’t be surprised when he hears giggling children and a familiar, older laugh just outside the mosaics meadow. But he looks up just as his family breaks though the brush, and his heart swells with joy and pride as the grandchildren scream, “Grampa! Grampa Q!” And rush towards him. Like tiny little missiles set on a target.

His son laughs, boisterous and wonderful, and it lights up Quentin’s heart as his wife calls out to the children, “Be mindful of the mosaic, children!” Because even she knows what they’re doing here.

Quentin shakily climbs to his knees, silently cursing his aching joints and holds out his arms just in time to get two armfuls of grandchildren. He laughs into their hair, ruffles the youngest and looks over their heads at his son. “You came.”

But Rupert just shakes his head with a laugh, and says, “Of course we came, dad.”

Even now, it’s so strange when he says it. When he calls him _dad_. His eyes well up and he lets go of two of the grandkids to wipe at the tears before they can fall. The last thing he needs is his son worrying about him. He’s already made him worry about Eliot. “I missed you,” He says, grateful smile on his lips as he brushes away the tears.

Rupert finally reaches him and the children scatter off towards their mother, cheery and wonderful. “I missed you, too.” Quentin pulls him in for a hug, and almost feels like he can’t let go as he hugs him back just as tightly. “How is he?”

They pull away and Quentin looks down at the ground. “Stubborn,” he says, finally, “He can hardly move but he still...” his chin wobbles as he looks back up, “It’s been difficult.”

Rupert’s wife sidles up to them and gives Quentin a small hug, “What can we do?” And Quentin wishes he could bless her very existence. When Rupert first appeared out by the garden with a beautiful blonde woman on his arm, he and Eliot hadn’t known what to think. But from that moment until right now, nearly _twenty_ years, she’s proven herself to be the kindest, warmest, and most welcoming woman Quentin’s ever met. It didn’t take him long to realize how perfect she was for his son. And it took no time at all for him to welcome her into the family.

The door to the cottage opens, and Eliot makes his way out, one careful step at a time. The children stop laughing, and Eliot doesn’t even seem to realize he and Quentin aren’t alone. “Q,” He croaks, “It’s my turn. You’ve been at it for two—“ he stops as he looks up, mouth falling open at the sight of Rupert and everyone else. “What—“ His eyes go wide, and Quentin can just catch the slight twinkle of the tears welling in his eyes as the sun hits him.

Rupert chuckles, “Kids, go give grandpappy Eliot a hug.”

“Grandpappy?” Eliot asks, face scrunching up in distaste. The kids don’t even hesitate, though, and neither does he, as they rush across the mosaic and collide into Eliot’s open arms. He laughs as he hugs them. “You’ve all gotten so big!” Though, he does flinch as they collide with his body, he hides it with an eyebrow raise over their heads, “We’re going to talk about this ‘grandpappy’ nonsense later,” He calls across the yard, before turning his attention back on the grandkids with a big grin.

Quentin watches on as the kids lead him over to a chair, all collectively telling him how they’ve been since they last saw him. He hears stories of new toys, lessons, and even that the oldest, Jess, has a girlfriend. It’s the happiest and most alive Quentin’s seen Eliot in weeks, as he laughs and asks guiding questions. As he pulls the smallest two to sit on his laugh, and the eldest two sit on the arms of the chair.

Quentin’s heart _aches_.

Before Rupert and the grandchildren, Eliot had been so afraid of being a father. And considering his history, there was no question as to why. But then Peaches got pregnant—because even thinking her real name still pains him—and Eliot was there every step of the way. Frightened at first, to hold the baby, until one day he was the one rocking him to sleep with lullabies or telling him stories. And when Peaches left them for a more fulfilling life, Eliot took her role as parent as easily as he slipped on his shoes in the morning.

And then the grandchildren came, and he positively lit up around them.

Parenthood was fucking made for Eliot Waugh.

And if you’d told either of them before they walked through the clock, neither of them would have believed it.

Rupert squeezes Quentin’s shoulder, “It’s going to be okay, dad,” He says, “You’re just not used to him being old.”

Maddy laughs beside them, leaning her head on the opposite shoulder. “Though the stubbornness isn’t new.”

Quentin cracks a smile, sniffing as he looks away from Eliot and the kids. “I know, I’m probably exaggerating. I just—“ And here come the tears again, his chin wobbles as one particular thought he’s avoided for years flashes, and he can’t help the word vomit that spills out because it’s been waiting in him since Eliot’s hair went gray—“ _I can’t lose him_.” And, god, it hurts more to admit it, admit to the idea of a life without Eliot, somehow more outside than bottled up inside of him.

Both of them wrap their arms around him, “It’s okay,” Maddy says, “You guys aren’t that old yet. You’ve still got so many years together. So many more memories to make.” She lets go with one arm to wipe at his tears with a soft, warming smile, “Don’t let yourself get worked up over something that is decades away.”

Which just makes him more emotional, because, really, who the fuck else has such a wonderful daughter in law?

Rupert looks across the yard at Eliot and the kids, “You guys are still young, pop. Look at him. Margo and Jules are braiding his hair—“

“That’s what _worries_ me—“

Shaking his head, Rupert turns back, “Be happy. You still have a chance, here, dad.”

“Oh,” Maddy coos, “Are we getting onto him about this, now? He’s crying Rup, maybe it’s best we wait.”

“If we wait he may never tell him he’s still in love with him.”

Quentin’s heart stops, and he unravels himself from them. He frowns, pointing a shaking finger at them both, mouth opening and closing as he tries to find the right words to say. “I don't—you can’t—Rupert! I’m—this is not—“

Rupert laughs, leaning in and grabbing his shoulders, gentle but firm—he learned that from Eliot—“Dad. It’s okay. Everyone and their mother knows.” He nods towards the kids, “Seriously they ask every time we visit. Have gramps and grandpappy finally gotten married? Can I be the flower girl? Is there going to be a big wedding? If gramps and grandpappy get married, does that mean we’re gonna have an uncle? Every time, dad. The trip home is filled with questions about you two.”

“We—it’s complicated—“

Maddy snorts, “Right—the complicated part is Eliot’s not the only one who’s stubborn.”

Quentin gapes. “I take back every nice thing I’ve ever said about you.” He pauses, frowning, “traitor.”

She laughs with a roll of her eyes, “I’ll earn your favor back. The kids have the basket with the baked goods we made you.” Quentin’s eyes narrow, because damn it. He does love everything she bakes. “And it’s not about sides or anything. Rup told me all about what happened before he was born. Before,” She she makes a face, and honestly her distaste for Peaches is almost as strong as Quentin and Eliot’s and he fucking loves her for it, “ _Peaches_ walked into your lives.”

He looks back at Rupert, “I was drunk when I told you about that.”

Rupert's eyes widen a fraction, mocking, “So was pops,” He glances back at Eliot and back. “You’ve both told me all about how much you care about each other. Your Great Love Story. Don't think I don’t know who the speech was about at our wedding.”

“I don’t know what you’re—“

“What I don’t know,” Rupert continues, raising his voice slightly to silence Quentin, “Is why you’re fighting it? Still, after all this time. I mean, there’s fear of commitment, but you guys have been in this yard doing the same mosaic for going on fifty years. So it’s not that. What _is_ it?”

Maddy sighs, “I know I’m an outsider here—“ Quentin scoffs, and she smiles softly, “Technically,” she adds with a wrinkle of her nose, “But. When I look at the two of you, I see love. You’re the men that raised the man I love,” And she offers Rupert a smile, “A man who is so focused on love and being a good husband, that before I met the two of you, I could only wonder where he got it from. But you two exude love. Honestly, Quentin, whenever I’m here, it’s like being hit with a wall of pure, unadulterated _love_. What you two have is stronger than magic.”

“Seriously,” Rupert adds with a nod, “Whenever I leave this area, it’s like I’m being blanketed in cold. Because your guys’ love for each other practically powers everything around here. And the sexual tension—“

“You’re my son! I—“

“It’s awkward for me too! That’s why I have to point it out!” He turns Quentin so they’re both facing Eliot, “Look at him.” Eliot’s leaning forward, talking to Jess and Avery, while Margo and Jules braid his hair. He’s laughing, a big grin cracking his wrinkled cheeks, and his shaking hands dance through the air as he goes along with whatever they’re saying to him. “You said it yourself. You can’t lose him—“

Quentin shakes his shoulders free and turns back around to face the two of them, “Which is exactly why I can’t— _say_ anything.”

“Oh,” Maddy breathes. “Oh, honey.”

“What in the world makes you think you’d lose him? Dad, trust me, it’s entirely mutual between the two of you.”

Quentin sighs, heavy and looks up at the sky. “The last time I acted on this, it was wonderful. For a while. Until it wasn’t. We can’t—we don’t _work_. Well. Together.”

“I mean. You’ve been together for fifty—“

“Not _together_ together.”

Maddy makes a face, “You’ve been in a relationship without any of the benefits of being in a relationship. You’re allowed to have sex and enjoy yourself and—“

Rupert waves a hand frantically, “No. God, _no_. Maddy? _Why_? That image--“

“You mentioned the sexual tension!”

“That’s _different_!”

“No, it really isn’t, love. Not in the slightest.”

“One thing doesn’t put an image of my fathers doing—oh, god. _That_! In my _head_!”

She raises an eyebrow, “How about I cast a spell and—“

“Oh—you wouldn’t dare—“

She laughs, leaning in, “Try me, Coldwaugh!”

Quentin heaves a breath, “Are we done here, children? Because, I’d like to go spend time with the _actual_ children.”

Rupert gapes at him, before sighing, “Fine. Just—consider it, okay?”

“ _Seriously_ consider it,” Maddy adds, “Because we don’t think you’ll be so scared if you’re not fighting what you’re feeling so often. You don’t even get to enjoy the time you have with him, because you’re worrying about everything.” She leans in close, adds conspiratorially, “If you decide to move forward, I can give you tips—“

“ _Maddy_!”

“Rup, you are a prude and I—“

Quentin takes the opportunity to jump out of that particular conversation and makes his way over to Eliot and the grandkids. “Hey,” He says, grinning down at them, “It looks like I’m missing quite the party.”

“Not anymore,” Eliot says, glancing up at him, but looking back down with a laugh as the girls usher him with, ‘Wait! We’re not done, grandpappy!’ and a yank of his hair. “The girls are showing me all about how they learned how to braid hair.”

Quentin chuckles, kneeling down to sit on the ground beside them all, ignoring the way his bones creaks with the movements. “I can see that.” He smiles, as Eliot offers him a secret grin, and looks up at the children. “Alright. So, who’s going to update me on everything that’s happened since we last saw each other?”

“Me!” Jess exclaims, hyper and excited, “I’m the oldest, it’s my sacred duty!”

Jules shakes her head, “You’re the oldest, so that means you’re gonna die first, duh.”

Jess frowns, “that’s not true.”

Quentin reaches up and pulls Jess towards him, “That’s right, it’s not true. You four are going to live forever. Just like your mommy and daddy.”

“And you and grandpappy?”

Quentin stammers, but Eliot grins, wrapping an arm around Avery, “That’s right. I’m still not sold on being grandpappy, though. Maybe we should think of other, more, youthful names for me. How about, Stunningly Youthful Grandpa Eliot? Huh? I like that.”

Avery makes a face, shaking her head, “Nope. You’re grandpappy.”

Eliot nods, curling his lips, “I saw that one coming.” He looks over at Quentin, “But I did age like a fine wine, so, I can’t be too upset.”

And the afternoon goes on in the same manner. Playful bickering abound. A nice, home cooked dinner, and games. Stories. The kids even try the next attempt on the mosaic. And even rupert takes a turn, grinning as he finishes what Quentin had already started earlier in the day.

It’s the perfect day.

And then everyone goes home. And Quentin’s left with Eliot and everything Maddy and Rupert said dancing around in his head like a shitty song on replay.

Eliot, even in his old age and stupid stubbornness, seems to notice that somethings bothering him. He sits down next to him, groaning as his but hits the chair, and holds a cookie out to him. “Take it,” He says, “Otherwise I’m going to eat all the cookies and you’ll have none.” Quentin eyes him for a moment before chuckling and taking it. As he takes a bite, Eliot turns away to look out at the mosaic. “So,” He murmurs, after a few minutes of silent chewing, “What’s wrong?” He turns to Quentin, with asmug raised eyebrow.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that,” Eliot mutters with a roll of his eyes, turning away, “I know you more than any other person could ever claim to. So, I _know_ when you’re lying or when you’re upset.”

“Stop using our seclusion against me.”

“I’ll use whatever I like against you.” He shuffles in his chair, much slower than he used to and with great effort, until he can face Quentin full on. “Q,” He says, voice much softer, “Whatever it is, I’m the last person who’s going to judge you, or get mad at you. I’m here. And I want to _help_.”

Quentin sighs. How is he supposed to help with the fact that Quentin’s been pushing down his outright love for him for more than five decades? How’s he supposed to help that every time his bones creak, or his hands shake, Quentin is counting down their days together? How’s he supposed to tell him that while this is the best life he could have imagined living, he’s lived it filled with regret? Because of a fight that ended what could have been eternal happiness that happened over fifty years ago? How’s he supposed to tell him that he was actually relieved that his wife left him, because she never really felt a part of their lives? Like she was a puzzle piece that just _didn’t fit_?

How the fuck is he supposed to tell him that?

“It’s just—,” He starts, “You’re getting so old!”

Fuck. That is not at all what he’d meant to say. It’s true, but it’s not what he meant to say.

Eliot’s frozen for a few long seconds, before he leans away from him, one eyebrow perking up dangerously. “I’ll have you know,” He starts, pointing a shaking finger in Quentin’s direction, “That I have aged perfectly. And that you are only a year younger than me!”

“That’s not what I—“ He sighs again—because at his age is there really anything other than sigh that he can do?—and scoots forward at the edge of his seat. “Every. Every day I look at you, I see. The things I never got to do.” Hurt flashes across Eliot’s face, and he’s not as quick to hide it as he once was, “No—no. El, no. Not—not like that. The older yo—we get. The more regret I have. And Rupert and Maddy ambushed me. And I can’t stop thinking about it, even though it’ll fucking ruin everything we’ve built here. I just—i don’t know what I’m doing. Why I—why I do the things I do. Say . . . Say the things I say.” He looks at Eliot meaningfully, hoping to all gods that he just gets what he means. That he doesn’t have to say it.

Eliot watches him. It feels like an eternity, and for a moment, he’s so still Quentin nearly panics thinking he’s died on him, but then he moves, and he’s scooting the chairs closer together, until he’s only a few inches away. His old, frail knees, bump up against Quentin’s equally fucked knees, and he places a hand on one of them. “Q,” He says, slow, “I want to say I know where you’re going with this. But I’m not jumping to conclusions or getting my hopes up. I’m too old.” He pauses, licking his lips. “And I’m too scared to be wrong again.”

Quentin’s heart pangs. He knows he hurt him in the past. All the talk of Alice and their friends and basically choosing _everyone_ over him. All because he’s a fucking coward who can’t tell the person he loves that he’s in love with him. A coward who can’t overcome his fears, and ends up fucking everything up.

This was such a terrible idea. He’s just going to end up hurting him. _Again_.

He swallows audibly, and rests his head against the back of the chair, to look up at the stars. He’s silent for a few moments, before, “I think about that night a lot.”

Eliot’s breath hitches, but he makes no other indication that he knows what Quentin’s talking about. “Which night? We have thousands of them.”

“‘ _Our first and last year_ ’,” His face crumples as he lifts up to look at Eliot again, “Do you remember saying that? Because—all I remember when you said it, was how badly I wanted to kiss you. How much I wanted to be in your—to be in your arms. El, I loved—love—you so much, it physically _hurts_.” He reaches out and grabs Eliot’s hand, “And it—I. I get so scared because I ruined everything la—“

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Eliot interrupts, rushing, “Q, we were both young and stupid and _stressed_. Everything that followed—that’s on _both_ of us. You can’t hold that on you. I won’t let you.”

“I’m the one who wanted to give up—“

“And I’m the one who let you _walk away_.” Eliot squeezes his hand, “Q, I have been in love with you from the moment I first saw you. Back then—i’d just been waiting, and hoping that someday you might see me in the same light. Then there was that mess with the emotion bottles, and then the threesome, and after that all I wanted was for you to not hate me.”

“—I never—“

“Hush,” Eliot shakes his head, and leans forward ever more, reaching up with his free hand to brush Quentin’s hair back, and to cup his jaw, “You’ve been it for me from the moment you walked up to me the first day. I just didn’t want to push you into something you didn’t want. And I let you walk away because I thought you regretted it.”

“No,” Quentin leans into the warmth of Eliot’s hand, “I got scared, and homesick, but I didn’t regret it. And then when you suggested I get together with Peaches—“

“God, I hate her.”

A small laugh forces its way out of Quentin, but he continues on, “I thought it meant I’d ruined everything. It felt like an indicator that you and I . . . are just meant to be friends.”

“So we’ve been in platonic hell for five decades because we’re both idiots, basically.”

He laughs again, nodding, “Pretty much.”

Eliot nods thoughtfully, before pulling away from him and slapping his knees. “Well,” He says, carefully pushing himself up from the chair and holding a hand out for him, “I may be so old, but I’m pretty sure I’ve still got it. They call me grandpappy these days,” As Quentin takes his hands, and allows himself to be pulled up, he adds, “But I have no doubts that I’m still a young Patrick Swayze in the sheets. If you’d like to test that theory.”

“We just got hit by an emotional dump truck and your first thought is sex?”

Eliot laughs, leaning and pressing a kiss to Quentin’s temple, “Honey,” He says, “I’ve been virtually celibate for over fifty yeas. I am literally always thinking about sex. And,” He pulls away and wiggles his eyebrows, “Emotional dump trucks turn me on. Which is probably why I love you.”

“Are you calling me an emotional dump truck?”

“Am I wrong?”

Quentin sighs, fond, “No, you’re right. But don’t we have more to talk about?”

“Q,” Eliot murmurs, “We’re practically married, just without the benefits of marriage. Lets go have the benefits of marriage. Unless you’re too old for a good ol’ fashion romp—“

“I’m younger than you!”

Eliot smirks with a challenging eyebrow raise. “Oh yeah? Prove it, Coldwater.”

Quentin watches him for a moment, before nodding determinedly, “Alright,” He says, motioning towards the door, “Let’s go have old people sex.”

“I keep telling you—“

“Yeah, yeah, just go get naked already, so I can count all your wrinkles.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“That’s the _point_ isn’t it?” Quentin slaps at his back playfully as they get to the door, “God, you’re _slow_. I’ll be eighty by the time you—”

Eliot whips around, faster than he’s moved in years, and pulls Quentin in close. His hands close in on the space at the base of Quentin’s back, and he breathes him in, slow and deep. “Q,” He says, “Shut the fuck up and get naked,” He leans down, nosing his way along Quentin’s hairline, “So we can make up for fifty years of lost time.” His lips graze against Quentin’s skin, leaving a path of fire in their wake, until he finally makes it to his lips. “Okay?”

Quentin can only nod, until he’s pushing forward with near bruising force, and kissing him like he’s been waiting fifty years to do.

Which, he has.

 

 


End file.
